


Adelphotes

by LeFox



Category: Final Fantasy X, Final Fantasy X-2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:06:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeFox/pseuds/LeFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a ragtag trio of orphans to a summoner and his guardians: Isaaru, Maroda, and Pacce, and the long road they've walked together. (Covers pre-FFX, FFX, and FFX-2.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written anything significant for FFX before and I'm not ashamed to admit I'm TERRIFIED.

**[Part I: Family]**

Cold, the water was so _cold_.  And at night the ocean was as black as the sky; it was impossible to tell which way he needed to swim to reach the surface.  _Air!_   His eyes, his chest, his _mind_ burned with the desperate need for breath, and any moment now he was going to open his mouth against his will and breathe in the salty ocean water – and drown in it, and sink to the bottom of the ocean.  Die.  Become a fiend.  
  
 _No_ , Isaaru thought, kicking fiercely in the direction he hoped would bring  him to the surface.  _No, I can’t die here_.  
  
Death was for later; death was for the Final Summoning, and for the Calm that followed it.  Not here, not now, not here, not now, _not here, not-_  
  
He broke the surface and drank in the freezing night air.  Breathing burned, too; almost as badly as the need for air had burned, but there was a deep satisfaction in _this_ pain, and he gulped down as much air as possible, treading water.  _I survived._   For a moment, the elation of this simple fact was almost enough to overpower the much more important and pressing fact that he still needed to survive long enough to make it back to shore.  For now, it was enough to breathe and breathe and _breathe_ , and pretend for a moment, only a  moment, that Sin wasn’t still nearby.

. . .

  
_Sin attacked at night, turning an already-terrifying event into something out of a  nightmare.  It was a small village on the coast; no one now even remembers its name – it was just another small settlement carved out of the map when Sin found it.  Its extinction was hardly even noteworthy; many such towns met the same fate in the days when no summoner had yet brought the Calm to Spira._   
  
_One day there was a village._   
  
_And then there was Sin._   
  
_And that is all._

. . .

He’d meant to swim for the docks, but the docks were gone; jagged poles broke the surface of the dark water.  Isaaru clung to them, wearily drifting from one to the next, gradually moving toward the shore.  The sun was rising, casting a pale, sickly yellow light over what remained of what had been, until only a few hours ago, _home_.  
  
Ruins.  Shattered houses loomed out of the fading darkness like the skeletal remains of giants: here was a cracked timber resembling a ribcage, there was a blown-apart roof like the top of a skull.  Isaaru climbed onto the rocky shore and simply lay there for a time, too tired, too heartsick to move.  Surely sooner or later a survivor would climb out of those ruins and find him lying there, surely.  His mother, maybe?  His father had been killed by Sin just last year; she would have been devastated to lose her son in the same way; surely _she_ would be looking for him.  Isaaru felt exhaustion creeping over him like a shadow, and finally, unable to resist any longer, he succumbed to sleep.  
  
When he woke, it was fully daylight: the sky was overcast, and the sun peered out from behind the clouds as if it, too, wanted to avoid looking at the wreckage.  Isaaru closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut.  Hours he’d been asleep, at least, and no one had come to find him.  His ears were ringing; his head was throbbing; his eyes burned.  Too much seawater, not enough air, he told himself: too much seawater in his eyes, yes, that was it, he wasn’t crying, not at all.  
  
 _A summoner must be Spira’s light.  Even in times of pain and suffering, a summoner must stand tall and smile.  Weakness in a summoner is unthinkable.  Weakness in a summoner is a blow to Spira’s hope, and Spira has so little hope as it is.  A summoner must be Spira’s light.  Never forget that._  
  
A few ragged breaths later, he’d successfully fought down the tears.  Isaaru pushed himself up, sitting upright and shaking his head, trying to clear away the ringing in his ears; it seemed to only grow worse, rising from a ring to a wail…  
  
It was several seconds before the boy realized the wailing wasn’t in his head at all.  
  
He was on his feet immediately, running toward the source of the noise.  The world swam disconcertingly, but for the most part, he kept his balance – and kept his gaze from resting on the familiar sights of home, cast now in an alien shape and form.  No, focusing too long on that would break him, and there was a voice, a cry, a sound that required his complete attention.  Nor could he afford to focus on the fact that he hadn’t seen any survivors, nor could he afford to focus on the silence, the absolute silence, outside of that one lone cry.  
  
A baby.  An entire village, and this was all that remained: a sixteen-year-old boy and a squalling infant.  Praise be to Yevon, Isaaru thought, carefully digging through the rubble of a house that had only recently been built: a young family, he remembered.  They’d just welcomed their first child only a few months ago.  There was a pale arm barely visible beneath a collapsed outer wall; Isaaru looked away sharply.  Don’t focus on the dead when the living still need  your attention. Somewhere beneath the rubble was a crying baby, still alive despite all of the death around him, and what could that be if not a miracle?  
  
Careful, so careful.  Isaaru found his way to the bottom of the wreckage, moving each stone carefully.  And there, at the bottom, a grisly scene: the baby, yes, alive and screaming, still wrapped protectively against his mother’s chest.  The woman had taken a fatal blow to the head; the back of her skull was completely shattered, yet she’d managed to shield her child from harm.  
  
The name, the baby had a name.  What was it…?  “Pacce.  Your name was Pacce, wasn’t it?”  Isaaru gently pried the infant loose from his mother’s final embrace.  Pacce continued to scream, red-faced and furious, struggling against the blanket he was wrapped in.  “Strong lungs,” Isaaru observed, cradling the baby against him, relieved by the knowledge that he _wasn’t_ alone in the universe; that Sin hadn’t destroyed all life in this and all possible worlds.  
  
Now what?  
  
 _We can’t stay here._ Isaaru looked around, taking in what remained of the village.  Here and there a body remained, and he found himself wishing he was already a summoner – at the very least, already an apprentice.  With no surviving summoners here, no sending could be performed, and before long, these ruins would be crawling with fiends.    
  
If his parents had only allowed him to begin his apprenticeship…  
  
But it was too late for that now.  Isaaru sighed, looking down at the baby in his arms.  Pacce had quieted now, and was evidently drifting towards sleep.  _You complicate things_ , Isaaru thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the infant behind – they had both been spared from Sin’s devastation, after all; surely they both had some purpose left to serve in Spira.  Isaaru knew his own: to become a summoner, to defeat Sin.  It would be interesting to see what might become of Pacce, if the child only survived long enough to get there.  
  
But they couldn’t stay here.  Where, then?    
  
Aimlessly, he drifted toward the way out of town – or, more accurately, where they way out had once been.  A plan, he needed a plan, but right now he could barely string two thoughts together.  Perhaps if he had some idea of where to go from here, this wouldn’t seem so enormous, so daunting –   
  
Isaaru yelped; a small rock had struck his ankle, bouncing harmlessly and skittering to the ground.  He looked around, bewildered.  
  
“Down here!”  The weak voice finally caught his attention, rising from what remained of a cellar: a shallow, neatly-dug hole in the earth, nearly hidden in the shadows of the wreckage.  Isaaru crept carefully to the edge, peering down… and nearly startled himself again in the process: a pair of wide, frightened eyes looked back up at him.  
  
A child, Isaaru realized: a boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age, perched halfway up the cellar’s ladder, a cluster of stones in one hand.    
  
Another survivor.  
  
They stared at each other for a long moment, unmoving, unblinking.  
  
The child spoke first, quietly hopeful.  “Is Sin gone?”  At Isaaru’s nod, he fell silent a moment.  Then: “I see the sky.”  
  
Isaaru glanced over his shoulder.  “Yes.”  
  
“The roof is gone.”  The boy swallowed hard.  “The house is gone.  My parents…”  
  
No bodies in the wreckage here, no limbs betraying someone’s fate.  “We can look for them, if you like.  Why don’t you come up?”  
  
The boy looked down.  “I slid on the ladder coming down here.”  He hesitated.  “My ankle, I think it’s…”  
  
He didn’t wait to hear the explanation.  Carefully holding Pacce with one hand, Isaaru reached down with the other.  “Take my hand,” he urged.  “You made it halfway up the ladder, after all, didn’t you?  What’s another few rungs?  I’ll help you.”  
  
It was a slow process, made slower when Pacce woke and began wailing again.  The child’s ankle was clearly injured: he winced every time he had to put weight on it, and twice he nearly slipped and fell back into the cellar, but his grip on Isaaru’s hand kept him from tumbling.  Eventually, though, he pulled himself up to the ground, and they sat together at the top of the cellar, panting.  Pacce cried and screamed.  
  
“He might be hungry,” the boy suggested, gesturing toward Pacce.  
  
Isaaru looked down at his furious companion.  “His mother was killed.”  
  
The boy was quiet, looking around at the destroyed village.  “Sin destroyed my old town, too,” he said.  “We came here after that.”  
  
“That’s what Sin does.”  Isaaru gave Pacce a finger to suck on, temporarily silencing him.  “This is why I want to become a summoner.  To put an end to this.”  
  
The boy stared at him in awe.  “You’re a summoner?”  
  
“Not yet.”  _Or perhaps I could have prevented this._   “I hope to become one, though.”  
  
“You should go to Bevelle.”  
  
Isaaru blinked.  “What?”  
  
“Bevelle!”  The boy leaned toward him, suddenly excited.  “It’s the heart of Yevon.  They’ll teach you to be a summoner!  And it’s not far from here, you can walk.”  
  
“Can you?”  Isaaru frowned, glancing at the boy’s ankle.  It was badly bruised and swollen; it didn’t appear to be broken, no, but injured: yes, badly.   
  
The question was met with a startled stare.  “You want me to come, too?”  
  
“I can’t _leave_ you here.”  
  
“But…”  A deep frown, an expression entirely too serious for a child.  “I’ll slow you down.”  
  
“Are we in a hurry?”  
  
“You have a baby.  _Yes_.  You’re in a hurry.”  
  
“Don’t scold me.”  Isaaru found himself grinning.  “You’re coming along, and that’s final.  Can you stand?”  
  
Stubbornly, the boy rose, balancing awkwardly on one foot.  “I’m Maroda.”  
  
“Isaaru.”  Isaaru nodded in acknowledgement, then looked down at the baby in his arms.  “And this is Pacce.”    
  
 _And we have a long road to walk to Bevelle, the three of us._  
  



	2. To Bevelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let me worry about the fiends.” Isaaru took a few steps toward the trees. “Now come along, either we all go, or we all stay.” Slowly, with halting, agonizing steps, Maroda followed him into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot stress enough that I welcome questions and critique and comments about this fic, because I’m new to writing for this game and for these characters and I’m afraid of messing it up. o xo Help me not mess it up.

For a boy with an injured ankle, Maroda moved with alacrity, searching the destroyed village with a gait that was half limp, half hop, and all determination.  Isaaru watched in dazed awe, holding Pacce and doing his best to stay out of Maroda’s way.  The journey to Bevelle would take them through the Macalania Woods – a quick trip, usually; for a normal traveler, it could be only a matter of hours.  A normal traveler, however, wouldn’t have an infant and an injured child in tow.  For _this_ trip, Maroda had fervently insisted, they were going to need supplies. 

 Isaaru hadn’t thought to find any supplies _remaining_ among the wreckage, but here was Maroda, fishing out undamaged stock from the crumbling shop and finding food in houses that were little more than rubble.  He was small enough to squeeze into collapsed doorways and holes in walls; if his ankle pained him at all, it didn’t keep him from his search.

 At last he emerged from beneath what had once been a healer’s hut, proudly bearing three bottles.  Isaaru took one, examining it.  “Healing potions?”

 “I didn’t find any milk for Pacce.”  Maroda held up the other two potions.  “If we dilute these with water, they’ll be enough to keep him from starving until we get to Bevelle.”  He frowned.  “He won’t _like_ it, but it’s better than nothing.”

 “I see.”  Isaaru stared at the boy.  “How in the world did you come up with _that_?”

Immediately he wished he hadn’t asked; the boy’s gaze dropped to the ground.  “I had a baby sister,” he said, quietly.  “Before we came here.  Sin attacked our old home, too, before we came here.”

“I’m sorry.”

Maroda continued on as if he hadn’t heard the interruption.  “Sin came twice, one right after the other.  The first time, it nearly killed my mom, and my dad – a healer told him about the potions.  Until my mother got better, the healer said the potions would be enough to keep my sister alive.”  He shrugged in an attempt to reduce the horror of the story, but instead the gesture looked as if he were trying unsuccessfully to remove a heavy burden from his shoulders.  “The next time Sin came, it killed my sister.  We left.”

_And Sin came again, and now you’re all that remains,_ Isaaru thought, his heart aching.  It was hardly a unique story; Spira was full of such tales, and until a summoner brought the Calm, there would only be more – _many_ more. 

Clearing his throat, Maroda tucked the supplies he’d gathered into a weather-beaten satchel he’d scavenged from the shop.  “We should get going.  The bodies are already starting to give off pyreflies.”  He slung the satchel over one shoulder, nearly toppling himself off balance.  
  
“I could carry that,” Isaaru offered, but the boy was already limp-hopping away, toward the path that would lead them to the woods.

 “You carry Pacce,” Maroda replied, as the older boy hurried to catch up.  “It’s not as heavy as it looks.”

No, it was probably a good deal heavier than it looked.  Isaaru shook his head, marveling at the child’s stubbornness – surely it wouldn’t be any trouble to carry the pack _and_ Pacce?  The baby had drifted back to sleep, nestled against Isaaru’s heart.  He was small; he scarcely weighed anything at all.  Isaaru was struck suddenly by how fragile the infant was – and for that matter, for all his ferocious determination, so was Maroda.  The Macalania Woods could be dangerous, thick with fiends and twisting paths known to confuse travelers. 

_I can protect them,_ he thought, holding Pacce even closer.  _I must_. 

They walked in silence for a time, wrapped up in their own thoughts.  Isaaru couldn’t even begin to speculate about what might be going through Maroda’s mind – for all he knew, the boy was focusing entirely on the effort of taking each step, carefully putting as little weight as possible on his injured ankle before shifting almost immediately back to his uninjured leg, and sometimes traveling with short hops on the good leg to rest the injured one.  Neither of them looked back at the destroyed village they were leaving behind; clinging to the past would do no good.

Instead, Isaaru turned his mind toward Bevelle.  He’d visited the grand temple there once a year, paying respect to the Maesters who ruled over all those who followed Yevon’s teachings, but of the city itself, he knew very little.  Still, he knew the temple would be willing to train a new summoner.  His own fate was secure. 

What of Maroda and Pacce?

Children orphaned by Sin were a common tragedy in Spira, and in Bevelle, it was more than acceptable for them to be taken in by new families.  He supposed that was what would become of his young traveling companions: they would reach Bevelle, and he would ensure that they were both introduced to new families before beginning  his apprenticeship.  Isaaru felt his gaze shift toward Maroda.   At least Bevelle was only _very_ rarely attacked by Sin; clearly the boy had suffered from it _more_ than enough in his short lifetime.  In Bevelle, at least, he was more likely to be left in peace.

“Have you ever been to Bevelle?”

Maroda nearly tripped over his own feet at the question; he had been too focused on trying to walk.  Isaaru reached out a hand to steady him.  Once he’d regained his balance, Maroda continued limping forward.  “No,” he finally replied, gritting his teeth through the throbbing in his ankle.  He tried speaking only when he was balanced on his good leg.  “I went… to the temple at Lake… Macalania, once.  That’s… the closest… I ever went.”

“You know, I’ve never been to Macalania Temple,” Isaaru said, but rather than focusing on the conversation, he was watching Maroda’s face carefully: oh yes, he was in pain, and badly.  If his injury hadn’t been severe to begin with, it would almost _definitely_ be so by the time they reached Bevelle… no, perhaps even by the time they reached the woods.  The long hike through the winding branches was only going to aggravate it further.  And if they ran into fiends…

Perhaps he’d been watching a bit _too_ closely; Maroda’s expression soured into a scowl.  “I _told_ you… I’d only… slow you down.”

_I couldn’t leave you behind.  I can’t._ “Hm?  No, I was only wondering if I could convince you to stop for a second,” he lied, shifting Pacce’s weight to his other arm.  “I think Pacce’s probably still hungry, after all, and I’m exhausted.”

“We’ve only been walking for _maybe_ half an hour.”  Now that they’d come to a stop, Maroda stood balanced on his good leg, lifting the wounded ankle a short distance off of the ground.  “You can’t be tired already.”

No, but _he_ could: the effort of walking even this short distance had left Maroda obviously drained.  Isaaru shrugged, sitting down beside the dusty path.  “I don’t travel much.  Have a little pity for me?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, but he hopped to Isaaru’s side, taking a seat and half-stifling a relieved sigh as he got off of his feet.  He reached into the traveling satchel and found one of the potions.  After a moment’s consideration, he drank half of the potion himself – it would do little to mend his ankle, Isaaru knew, but at least it might restore a touch of stamina.  To the half-empty potion bottle, Maroda added some water from a canteen.  Once the mixture had been thoroughly shaken, he once again reached into the satchel and withdrew a scrap of cloth.  When Isaaru stared at the cloth in confusion, Maroda sighed. 

“Pacce’s a _baby_.  He isn’t going to gulp it down right out of the bottle, is he?”  Maroda soaked the cloth in the diluted potion, then leaned over and touched a corner of the cloth to Pacce’s mouth.  The baby stirred, whining quietly for a second before sucking hungrily at the fabric.  “Give it a minute,” Maroda warned, sitting back.  “He won’t like the taste.”

Evidently, though, either the potion was diluted enough that the flavor wasn’t strong, or Pacce was hungry enough not to care – the baby greedily devoured the potion; the cloth had to be soaked twice more before he settled back into satisfied slumber. 

“Clever.”  Isaaru handed the cloth back to Maroda, who tucked both it and what remained of the potion with the rest of their supplies.  “I wouldn’t have thought of it.”

“It’s survival.”  Maroda rubbed at his sore ankle, which had only turned more dramatic shades of purple since their walk began.  He watched Isaaru, eyes narrowing again.  “Are you still tired?”

Isaaru glanced at the boy’s ankle.  “I might be.”

“You want to be a summoner, right?”

The question caught him by surprise; he blinked.  “I… yes, I do.  Why?”

Maroda sighed heavily, flopping onto his back in exasperation.  “What about the _pilgrimage_?  If you get tired from _this_ little walk, how are you supposed to walk all the way across Spira?”

Oh.  Perhaps being tired wasn’t the _best_ excuse he could have come up with, then.  Isaaru fought the urge to smile, forcing himself to wear a look of stern consideration.  “I do have a great deal of training left to endure.”

“You’ll have to climb Mount Gagazet.”  Maroda groaned.  “You won’t even get past the _gates_.”

“I’m sure they cover mountain climbing during the apprenticeship.”

“And what about the Thunder Plains?  You can’t just take a break every few minutes.  You’ll get struck.”

“Of course I can.  Just collapse somewhere near the lightning rod towers.  How hard could it be?”

“And the _stairs_ to Kilika Temple.”

“Stairs aren’t that bad.”

“What’ll the priests think when they see you dragging yourself up the first few steps because you’re already out of breath?”

“I’ll just have my guardians carry me,” Isaaru replied, grinning.  “I’m sure that’s part of the guardian’s code, isn’t it? 

Maroda’s scowl only darkened.  “This isn’t something to joke about.”

No, in truth, it certainly wasn’t.  “Fine.”  Rising to his feet, Isaaru offered Maroda his free hand.  “Let’s hurry on to Bevelle so they can train me not to be a failure at taking long walks, hm?”

“ _Long walks_ , he says,” Maroda muttered, accepting the offered help to his feet.  He regained his balance, and they set off.

. . . 

They took another break at the edge of the Macalania Woods, just before the crystalline trees swallowed the path they’d been walking.  Maroda’s nerves were raw – between the growing pain in his ankle, these unnecessary stops, and Pacce’s renewed screaming, he was at his wits’ end.  He wasn’t going to survive to Bevelle, he _knew_ that.  Not when the woods were teeming with fiends that even experienced soldiers struggled against.  Not when he couldn’t even run away.  Maybe he should’ve just stayed behind in the village; when the dead became fiends, they would have found him and finished him off, anyway.

Isaaru was watching the sky, obviously taking note of how late in the afternoon it had already gotten.  _I told you I’d just slow you down_ , Maroda thought bitterly.  He _did_ warn Isaaru.  And just who did the older boy think he was fooling, anyway?  These breaks weren’t for _his_ benefit, and Maroda knew it.  Isaaru didn’t even look the slightest bit tired.  Or upset, come to think of it.

Hadn’t Isaaru lost _his_ family, too?

How could he manage to _smile_ like that?

Was that part of being a summoner?

Maybe it was _all_ just part of becoming a summoner, Maroda reflected: saving Pacce, saving him.  Maybe Isaaru was just getting ready to become an apprentice summoner; they were supposed to consider the safety of the people of Spira before all else, weren’t they?  What a way to live.

“We should go,” Isaaru said, once Pacce had quieted down.  “We can still reach Bevelle before the sun sets.”

“Not with me, you won’t.”  Maroda’s eyes stung, but he refused to cry.  If the pain in his ankle hadn’t brought him to tears yet, _this_ wasn’t going to, either.  “You need to go on without me.”

Isaaru shook his head.  “I can’t leave you here.”

“You _can’t_ be stuck out in the woods at night,” Maroda insisted.  Why was it so _hard_ to make him see the truth?

“Neither can you.  If I leave you here –”

“The fiends’ll get me.”  _I’m not crying.  I’m not scared.  I’m not_.  “But they’ll get me in _there_ , too.”

“You stand a better chance if you aren’t alone.”

“And _you_ stand a better chance if you’re _not with me_!”

“Maroda.”  Isaaru caught him up in a one-armed embrace, burying Maroda’s face against his shoulder.  “I’m not leaving you behind.”

The tears came then, and Maroda clung to Isaaru while he sobbed; in between tear-choked gasps he tried to point out the facts – that they’d never reach Bevelle safely, that the fiends in the woods were vicious and he couldn’t run from them, that there was nowhere for him to go in Bevelle even if they _did_ make it there, that it was too hard to walk, that it was too painful, that it was too far.  Somewhere in the middle of it all, his own crying woke Pacce, who also began wailing in confused fear, which only made Maroda feel worse; his own misery was contagious.

Isaaru held him until the last of his shuddering sobs came to an end, and for a few moments after.  Then, when it was clear that both Maroda and Pacce had calmed somewhat, Isaaru released him.  “Let’s go.”

Maroda felt drained; crying was exhausting.  “I can’t.”

“You can.”  Isaaru smiled encouragingly, gesturing toward the darkening sky.  “We’ll camp in the woods if we have to.  If it takes us an entire week to reach Bevelle, that’s fine, but I won’t leave you behind.”

“But the fiends –”

“Let me worry about the fiends.”  Isaaru took a few steps toward the trees.  “Now come along, either we all go, or we all stay.”

Slowly, with halting, agonizing steps, Maroda followed him into the woods.  There was no path, necessarily – traversing Macalania meant walking along the raised roots and branches of the trees themselves.  It was a grueling hike, and staying balanced on the thin branches was key to survival; falling from this height would almost definitely mean death.  Maroda struggled not to look down; even though Isaaru kept a steadying hand on his shoulder while they walked, he was sure that any minute now, his uneven steps were going to send him tumbling to the ground.

The woods were beautiful: the air was cool and crisp; the trees stretched their blue-tinted branches toward the sky; and here and there, nestled where a branch met a trunk, there was a large crystalline flower.  “Summoners pass through here on their pilgrimages,” Isaaru informed him quietly, looking around.  “To the temple at Lake Macalania, where Shiva’s Fayth rests.  This isn’t the route a summoner would follow, though, of course; there’s a shorter path between Macalania Temple, Bevelle, and the Thunder Plains.”

“And the Calm Lands?”

Isaaru smiled, nodding.  “And the Calm Lands.  Very good.”

And from there, on a summoner’s pilgrimage, it was on to Mount Gagazet, and then… Zanarkand.  Maroda shivered.  Only summoners and the Maesters of Yevon had seen Zanarkand for nearly a thousand years.  Summoners went to the ruined ancient city and came back bearing the Final Aeon, the only way to defeat Sin.  It was a place of magic and mystery – and secrets.  Thousand-year-old secrets.  Entrance to the city itself was forbidden to non-summoners without Yevon’s blessing, and the dangerous climb up Mount Gagazet deterred those who would enter the city regardless; no one knew what lay hidden in those ruins.  Maroda thought he was content _not_ knowing.

Isaaru, though…

“You’ll go to Zanarkand one day?”  Maroda hopped along the branches, too afraid of falling to be tired.  “You’ll get the Final Aeon and fight Sin?”

Before Isaaru could reply, though, a shadow passed overhead, moving quickly through the treetops.  Isaaru froze, pulling Maroda to an unsteady stop.  Maroda’s heart pounded in his ears.  “What was-”

“Shh.”  Isaaru drew closer to him, watching the high branches intently.  The shadow was back, leaping from branch to branch, skittering along the trunks.  _Fiends,_ Maroda thought, despairing.  It was a wonder it’d taken this long for the fiends to find them, but sooner or later, their luck had to run out.  He realized he was gripping Isaaru’s free arm tight enough to leave a bruise, but if the older boy noticed, he wasn’t saying anything – his eyes were trained on the moving shadow, which was coming closer, closer –

Far above, there was the sound of something launching itself through the branches, breaking through the brittle wood.  In an explosion of splinters, the creature landed on the branch just a few steps from where they were standing.  The thing seemed to be made entirely of blades – it was all spindly legs and sharp edges, and the slightest brush of one of those blades was likely enough to severely injure a grown man.  What chance did three children have?

_No, no, no,_ Maroda thought, willing himself to release Isaaru’s arm so the other boy could run away – there was no way they stood a chance against something like this, unarmed and alone.  If he let Isaaru go, at least he and Pacce might stand a chance of reaching Bevelle… but he couldn’t bring himself to let go.  _I don’t want to die,_ he realized, and the fear was sharper than any of the fiend’s blades.  _I don’t want to die._

“Isaaru…”  He heard the whimper in his own voice, and hated it.

“I’m thinking.”

_How can you sound so calm?_ Maroda hadn’t been impressed thus far with what he’d seen of Isaaru’s ‘thinking,’ and right now his own mind was completely blank with white-hot terror.  The fiend watched them through deep-seated eyes, shifting back and forth on its bladed feet, preparing to pounce.  One slice, that was all it would take.  Maroda started shaking, wondering if it would at least be a quick death –

“Let go of my arm,” Isaaru said quietly, never looking away from the fiend. 

So he _was_ going to run for it.  Maroda felt his stomach twist into a knot, and his eyes burned with renewed tears – but he’d known this was going to happen, right?  What else could Isaaru do?  They didn’t have weapons; they didn’t know any magic; they didn’t stand a chance against a fiend.  And there was Pacce to consider, too.  Maroda closed his eyes and tried not to cry.  If he had to die here, he wasn’t going to do it sobbing like a child.

Slowly, as if the effort of doing so hurt more than walking had, he released his grip on Isaaru’s arm.

Rather than running away, though, Isaaru thrust Pacce into Maroda’s arms.  The baby began wailing again, and Maroda stared at Isaaru in confusion – was he going to leave them _both_ behind? – but the fiend chose that moment to pounce, whipping its blades forward for a killing strike; Isaaru shoved Maroda behind him and threw his arms up over his face in futile self-defense.

There was a sound – a snap, sharp and echoing, ringing through the trees like thunder.

Maroda realized he was lying on his back on the ground; he hadn’t managed to maintain his balance when Isaaru had pushed him, but Pacce was nestled safely against his chest.  The baby screamed and cried, but the woods felt strangely silent in the wake of that loud, sudden noise.  And on the ground… on the ground, there was blood, fresh blood.

“Isaaru?”  Maroda looked up; the other boy was still standing, evidently unharmed, if a little shaken. 

Isaaru shook his head, looking back at him.  “Are you alright?”

“What _was_ that?”  He sat up, holding Pacce close.  He was still shaking; if his nerves had been raw before, now they were utterly frayed.  “The fiend…”

The fiend was sprawled on the branch, slowly dissolving into pyreflies: dead.  But how?

“Cornered by a Xiphos, were you?  You’re lucky we found you, boys.  Praise be to Yevon!”  From further up the branch, two strangely-armored men appeared.  Their faces were hard to see beneath their domed helmets, and their weapons…

Isaaru frowned.  “That weapon – it’s a machina.”

One of the men hefted the weapon, nodding.  “A rifle.  Yevon approves of the use of these machina for Bevelle’s protection, don’t worry.”

“Besides,” the other man cut in, grinning beneath his helmet.  “You’d be dead right now if we didn’t have ‘em.  Why didn’t you run, boy?”

Isaaru helped Maroda to his feet and retrieved Pacce, settling the fussing infant back into his own arms.  “He’s injured.  He can’t walk quickly, let alone run.”

“Yeah, but why didn’t _you_ run?”

The look Isaaru gave the man was icy. 

The other guard spoke up.  “Never mind all that, what’re you lot doing here, anyway?  These woods are dangerous.”

“Our village was destroyed by Sin.”  Isaaru wrapped a steadying arm around Maroda’s shoulders; Maroda leaned against him, welcoming the slight rest, but he suspected the gesture had more to do with Isaaru’s mistrust of these strangers.  “We’re trying to reach Bevelle.”

“Bevelle, is it?”  The grinning man’s smile widened.  “We’ll get you there.  We’re warrior monks; we’re trained to aid travelers through Macalania.  You’ll be in Bevelle before the sun goes down.”

. . .

As it happened, they reached Bevelle just _after_ the sun had gone down.  The monks carried Maroda up the daunting stretch of Bevelle’s famous Highbridge, which was just as well: the boy wasn’t certain he could survive another step.  Even Isaaru was finally starting to look genuinely exhausted.  Still, exhausted or not, Maroda’s pulse sped up when he got his first glimpse of the city of Bevelle itself – it was _enormous_.  There were terraces with houses built in the middle of flowing canals, more bridges spanning from one terrace to another, and right in front of them…

“Bevelle Temple,” the monk carrying him said, gazing proudly upon the soaring structure before them. “The heart of Yevon itself.  No one enters Bevelle without first passing through the temple and gaining the priests’ approval.  No infidels are welcome in this, the most sacred of cities.”

And then they were through the gates, and standing within the temple itself: a strange, darkened structure, with quiet priests moving through the shadows.  Maroda wondered if he was _supposed_ to be slightly terrified; it seemed like being in the heart of Yevon should be less frightening than this.

“What’s this?”  A priest stepped forward, folding his hands in the sleeves of his robe.  He glanced at Maroda, in the arms of the monk; then his gaze rested on Maroda’s bruised ankle.  “This child is wounded.  What happened here?”

The other monk stepped forward, swiftly bowing in Yevon’s prayer.  “We found ‘em wandering in the woods.  This one says their village was wiped out by Sin.”  He gestured toward Isaaru. “They’re seeking sanctuary in Bevelle.”

“Is that so.”  The priest studied Isaaru for a moment, then motioned him forward.  “All the faithful are welcome in Bevelle.  Is sanctuary _all_ you seek, lad?”

“No,” Isaaru bowed respectfully, unable to perform the prayer properly with Pacce in his arms.  “It is also my wish to train as a summoner.”

The priest simply nodded, as if the reply had been completely expected.  Then he looked from Maroda to Pacce, then back to Isaaru.  “And what of the children?”

Silence, for only a moment.  Then: “I would like to find a home within the city,” Isaaru replied, “for my brothers and myself.”

_Brothers._ Maroda’s gasp was so sharp he saw stars.

The priest lifted an eyebrow, glancing between them again, taking in the obvious disparity in their appearances – not to mention Maroda’s open stare.  “Brothers, is it?”

Isaaru nodded, his expression betraying nothing.  “It is.”

“As you say.”  The priest turned, calling into the shadows.  “Zuke, to me.”  A young acolyte hurried toward them, bowing to the priest before turning his attention toward the rest of them.  The priest nodded.  “Zuke, you have room available at your home, do you not?  Until other arrangements can be made, these children will be in your care.”

If the  news alarmed the young man, Zuke didn’t show it.  He offered Isaaru a mild smile, nodding in acknowledgment.  “You’re to be a summoner, I hear?  I, too, will begin my apprenticeship soon.  We have much to talk about, I think.”

But Maroda didn’t care about summoners or apprenticeships or even having a roof over his head.

As Zuke led the way out of the temple and the rest of them followed, Maroda still cradled in the monk’s arms, all he could think was: _Brothers, brothers, he called us brothers._


	3. Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still super open to critique and questions. o xo

Though he still wasn’t entirely willing to trust machina, even those approved by Yevon, Isaaru found he was willing to make an exception for the sake of hot bath water.  He hadn’t quite realized just how filthy the journey had left him – between being hurled into the ocean and spending the better part of the day walking toward Bevelle, it was a wonder the temple hadn’t tossed him out.  Isaaru filled and drained the tub three times before he was satisfied that all of the salt, sweat, dust, and grime had been sufficiently scrubbed away.  His clothes had been taken away to be cleaned (or perhaps burned), but Zuke had been kind enough to lend him some clothing.  They didn’t quite fit, but they were clean and comfortable.

He made his way through the house, marveling at how large it was; homes simply didn’t _get_ this large anywhere else.  And as far as he could tell, Zuke seemed to live alone despite the enormous space.  Was this _normal_ in Bevelle?  Sin rarely attacked this holy city; perhaps that was why the people here felt secure enough to build greater houses.  Maybe in Bevelle, home truly _was_ a place of safety.

If so, Isaaru reflected, he’d brought Maroda and Pacce to a safe haven after all.  He hoped it was so.

“Clean at last, are you?”  Zuke was kneeling beside Pacce’s makeshift bed – it was too late in the evening to track down a proper cradle for the baby, so an empty chest lined with blankets would have to do for the night.  Pacce didn’t seem to care; the baby was drowsing, one tiny hand wrapped around one of Zuke’s fingers.  “The healer just left,” Zuke said, as Isaaru joined him at Pacce’s side.  “She says Pacce is perfectly healthy.  You’d never guess he spent a hard day on the road.”

 _That would be thanks to Maroda’s potions, I expect._ Isaaru smiled, stroking the baby’s fine dark hair; for an infant, Pacce had proven to be a sturdy little thing.  “And Maroda?”  The first thing he’d done upon arriving in Zuke’s home was to demand that Maroda be taken to a healer.

The acolyte sighed, pulling his finger free of Pacce’s tired grip and sitting back.  “The boy’s ankle will mend, but the healer wants to keep him in her care for a day or two.  There’s an infection she wishes to see eliminated before turning him loose.”  Zuke frowned.  “She was surprised he’d managed to walk so far.”

“Maroda is full of surprises,” Isaaru said, his tone mild despite his concern – so Maroda was ill, then, and it was likely in no small part thanks to _him_.  A long day of walking on an injured ankle…

As though reading his mind, Zuke rested a hand on Isaaru’s shoulder.  “If you’d left him behind, he’d be dead or worse.”  He squeezed the boy’s shoulder.  “He’s in good hands now.  He wouldn’t be with the healer now if you hadn’t brought him along.  This was the will of Yevon; you made the right choice.”

“It was never a choice.”  _I couldn’t leave them behind.  Neither of them._

“It is always a choice.”  Zuke rose, pacing across the room.  He stood before the only decoration on the large room’s barren walls: a map of Spira, with Yevon’s sigils marking the locations of the temples a summoner must visit on their pilgrimage.  The acolyte gestured to the grand map.  “Everything we _do_ is a choice.  To become a summoner: a choice.  To embark on a pilgrimage: a choice.  To give our lives in the defense of Spira: a choice.”  Zuke nodded at Isaaru and Pacce.  “To save the lives of two children…”

Isaaru shook his head.  “It wasn’t a choice.  I did what I had to do.”

“But the choice was there,” Zuke insisted gently.  “To save your own life and leave them to their fates, or to save them and bring them here.  You _chose_ , Isaaru.”

“I couldn’t leave them.”  Isaaru looked down at Pacce, recalling the image of the baby shielded in his dead mother’s arms.  And Maroda, struggling to climb out of a cellar with a shattered ankle.  How could he leave them?  How could _anyone_ leave them?  “If a life can be saved –”

“Another choice, then.”  The acolyte’s eyes gleamed.  “The choice to not only deliver them safe from harm, but to bind your fate to theirs, as well.  Here, too, would you argue you had no choice?”

The boy swallowed, not looking up.  “They are my brothers.”

“Today, perhaps.  Were they your brothers yesterday?”  When Isaaru remained silent, Zuke nodded.  “As I thought.  An interesting decision, for one who hopes to become a summoner.  Why did you do it?”

Why _had_ he done it?  Isaaru closed his eyes, suddenly feeling all of the day’s exhaustion settling on his shoulders at once.  Why _had_ he done it…?  In the moment, it had seemed the most natural decision in the world.  But he’d planned to find the children new homes and families within Bevelle, hadn’t he; hadn’t that been his original plan?  And didn’t that make so much more sense?  Claiming them as his brothers – as Zuke said, binding their fates to his own – would only cause more pain in the long run, after all, and they would only be left alone again when he began his pilgrimage.  Better, kinder, to make a clean break of it now and never see either of the boys again.  Pacce would certainly never miss him; no, at best, he’d be something for Pacce to brag about as he grew older: _I was brought to Bevelle by High Summoner Isaaru, before he brought the Calm._

Maroda, though…

Maroda.

  _I’m not leaving you behind,_ Isaaru had promised, but for that briefest of seconds in the woods, when the fiend was preparing to strike… for a half a second, Maroda had prepared to be abandoned.  He’d been _expecting_ it.

Perhaps that was why.

“I don’t know.”  He opened his eyes, looking up at Zuke wearily.  “I made a choice.”

“So you did.”  Zuke nodded, returning to sit beside his young houseguest.  “A choice I pray you may find  no cause to regret.  Forgive me.  I don’t mean to torment you.”

Isaaru shook his head.  “No, you’re right to ask.”

“Then perhaps I might ask something else.”  When Isaaru glanced at him, curious, Zuke gazed steadily into his eyes.  “I ask that you delay your training.  Only for a year, or perhaps two.”  
  
The boy frowned.  “You think I’m too young.”  
  
“You _are_ young,” Zuke pointed out, stifling a brief smile.  “But there have been young summoners before.  None have succeeded in reaching Zanarkand – but there were those who came _very_ close.  No, for your _age_ , I’d merely advise caution.  It’s for your brothers I suggest delaying.”

“My brothers?”  The word still felt foreign; Isaaru had never before had siblings.  “I don’t take your meaning.”

Patiently, the young acolyte explained.  “Their home has been destroyed, so you brought them here, to a new home.  There has been no time, I suspect, to properly accept the loss of the _old_ home.  I doubt Maroda has even begun to mourn for the family he’s lost.  Have _you_ , for that matter?”  Isaaru remained silent.  Zuke nodded.  “And the first thing you did upon arriving in Bevelle was to establish yourself as Maroda’s _new_ family.  Whether you understand why or not, you made that choice.”

“It was the second village he’d fled from,” Isaaru said quietly, recalling Maroda’s story.  “His sister, his parents, two homes… Sin took them all.”

“And you’re asking him to accept, so soon, that Sin will one day take the life of his new brother, as well.”

“So that it might be the _last_ thing Sin takes from him,” Isaaru protested, barely keeping himself from shouting; it wouldn’t help to wake Pacce. 

Zuke remained unperturbed, watching him calmly.  “The Calm in exchange for the loss of everything he knows or cares about?  That seems a bitter trade, Isaaru.”  He sighed, rising to his feet.  “I don’t ask that you make any decisions tonight.  You’ve had a difficult day, and you need rest – only think about it.  Consider it.”  
  
 _I made my decision years ago._ “I’ll consider your counsel.”  Isaaru yawned, standing.  Zuke was right about one thing: he _did_ need rest.  Had it only been that morning the three of them had set out from the ruined village…?  It seemed like that had been days ago.  Years.  Isaaru followed Zuke to a guest room: the _idea_ of a home being large enough for a guest room was bewildering.  “I should thank you for your hospitality,” Isaaru realized, mortified that it had taken him so long to do so.  “And on such short notice…”

“I’d been waiting for something like this.”  Zuke chuckled, his dark eyes sparkling merrily.  “You’re my punishment, you see.”

“Punishment…?”

Zuke nodded.  “For choosing to live alone, rather than with the other acolytes.  I’ve always enjoyed my privacy, after all, and once I begin my apprenticeship as a summoner… well.  The peace and quiet will be welcome.”

“And now you’re saddled with three guests.”

“Not quite so harsh a punishment as was perhaps intended.”  Zuke glanced toward the main room, where Pacce had yet to make even the slightest noise.  “I expect the high priest meant for little Pacce to be a squalling brat, at the very least, to properly ruin my peace and quiet.  He’s a prickly man, our high priest, and one treads carefully around his pride.”  He lifted an eyebrow, returning his attention to Isaaru.  “He banished a young monk for refusing his daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Isaaru’s attention sharpened.  “Sir Auron.  Lord Braska’s guardian.”  He’d heard stories about Lord Braska’s unusual apprenticeship and even more unusual pilgrimage; the man’s devotion demanded admiration. 

“So you know of Lord Braska?”  That seemed to surprise the acolyte.  “He’s from Bevelle, you know, and reaching the end of his pilgrimage very soon.”

“Truly?”

“They say he began climbing Mount Gagazet only yesterday.”  Zuke folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes.  “There are those who say that even if he reaches Zanarkand, he’ll be denied the Final Aeon for his transgressions.”

 _Transgressions?_ Isaaru fumed.  “He wed an Al Bhed woman.  Has he not obeyed the teachings in all else?  The fayth in the temples saw fit to grant him their aeons; why should Zanarkand be any different?”

“The teachings of Yevon must be upheld.”

“Of course.”  Out of habit, Isaaru performed Yevon’s prayer, but it didn’t calm him.  “But Lord Braska could defeat Sin, no?  If he does, is his Calm any less valuable because _he_ delivered it?  A Calm brought by _any_ summoner is a Calm worth having!”

Zuke smiled, resting a hand on Isaaru’s shoulder.  “Peace.  I agree with you, as it happens.  I knew Braska for a short time, and though he may not have been the most faithful servant of Yevon, he’s a good man.  If the fayth in Zanarkand sees fit to grant him the Final Aeon, I would have no argument against him, nor would I begrudge him the title of High Summoner – but you didn’t hear that from me.  Now.  Get some rest.  Tomorrow we’ll check in on young Maroda, and I’ll see about giving you a proper tour of the city.”

. . .

What struck him most about Bevelle was how _quiet_ the city was – even the village had been full of the small, casual noises of people going about their daily lives.  Bevelle was a city of silence.  The only sound came from the water in the canals lapping against the stone walkways, but even that sound had an odd hush to it, as if the water itself was whispering, afraid to break the silence.  The streets weren’t empty: there were people making their way to shops, to the temple, to their homes, to the market, and a few people sat on benches and conducted quiet conversations… but none of it seemed any louder than the whispering water.

“Is it always so quiet?”  Isaaru kept his voice down, thankful that Pacce didn’t seem eager to cry today; the baby was happily murmuring to himself, evidently fascinated by his own hands.  “It’s peaceful, I suppose, but…”

Zuke nodded.  “Unnerving?  Yes, it does take a little getting used to, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Unnerving is a good word for it.”  
  
“This is a quiet part of town.  Things get a bit noisier near the temple.”  Zuke gestured discreetly toward a warrior monk on patrol.  “And even more so near the monks’ training grounds.  Now _there_ you’ll find a racket.”  He grimaced.  “The acolytes’ housing is near the training grounds.  Do you know they train into the early hours of the morning?  I don’t know how the others sleep.”

Isaaru smiled.  “I see why you moved.”

“I told the priests it was to facilitate my apprenticeship as a summoner.  I’ll thank you not to tell them otherwise.”

By then they’d reached the healer’s clinic: a small building, with space enough for three rooms.  The healer herself was a short, plump, red-haired middle-aged woman with a sharp tongue but a kind smile; she fussed over Isaaru a moment, scolding him for not allowing her to check _him_ over, no matter how hard he tried to explain that he hadn’t been injured.

“A toss into the ocean and an entire day spend trudging to and through the Macalania Woods?”  The healer scoffed.  “For all you know, you’re twisted about by Sin’s toxin.  Are you certain you know who you are?  Where you came from?”

Laughing, Zuke came to his rescue, stepping between him and the determined healer.  “He seems right-headed enough to me, Varra. Let the boy see his brother, won’t you?”  After one last scrutinizing frown, the healer nodded, leading the way into one of the small examination rooms. 

If he was as ill as Zuke had suggested the night before, Maroda showed no sign of it today; he sat up quickly when Isaaru came in, looking bright-eyed and restless as only a twelve-year-old boy could.  His ankle certainly _looked_ healed – the swelling and bruising had vanished.  Maroda looked around at all of them, hopeful.  “Can I leave now?”

“Absolutely not,” Varra declared, folding her arms and drawing herself to her full daunting height, which still left her a bit shorter than Maroda himself.  “You’re to stay in that bed and _rest_ until I tell you otherwise, young man.”

Maroda appealed to Isaaru, instead.  “I can walk!  I haven’t had a fever since this morning and my ankle’s _fine_.”  To demonstrate, he slid out of bed and hopped up and down a few times, then stood on the leg that had been injured.  “See?”

“He _does_ seem to be healed,” Isaaru pointed out.

It was the wrong thing to say, evidently.  Varra huffed, glaring first at Maroda, then at Isaaru.  “And are _you_ a healer, then, young man?  The boy couldn’t stand straight when the monks brought him in, and he spent all the  night locked in fever dreams, but no, _surely_ you know best.”  She jabbed Isaaru in the chest with an accusing finger.  “ _You_ , who walked the boy all the way through the Macalania Woods!  A summoner indeed, I’ve never known a summoner who _wasn’t_ thick-headed and stubborn –”

“ _Varra_!”  Zuke cut in again, smiling.  “I’ll have you know they _train_ us to be thick-headed and stubborn.  It helps.”  He placed a hand on Maroda’s shoulder.  “Now be honest, Varra – is there any reason the boy can’t spend the rest of his recovery at my house with his brothers?”  A little jolt went through Maroda’s body at the word _brothers_ , and he bit his lip, glancing up at Isaaru.

The healer sighed, considering the boy for a moment.  “He’s through the worst of it, I think.”  She sighed, throwing up her hands in defeat. “Fine, _fine_ , but if there’s so much as a _touch_ of fever, you come to me.  _Immediately_ , you understand that, Zuke?”

“Absolutely.”  Zuke bowed to the woman.  “Thank you for your efforts, Varra.”

Maroda cleared his throat, looking around.  “Would it be okay if…”  He took a deep breath.  “I’d like to have a word with Isaaru before we leave.  Alone,” he added.

. . .

“He still looks healthy,” Varra concluded, tickling Pacce gently.  The baby giggled, wiggling and flailing his small arms; the healer smiled.  “Poor thing, orphaned so young…”  She looked toward the door of the examination room; she and Zuke had been exiled while Isaaru and Maroda spoke.  “All of them, really.  And the older boy’s to be a summoner?”

Zuke nodded.  “It’s what he wishes.  I’m trying to convince him to delay his training.”

“Try as hard as you can.”  The healer handed Pacce back to Zuke, frowning thoughtfully.  “Maroda had nightmares all night, you know.  From the fever, perhaps, but…”  She shook her head.  “Zuke, he’s survived at least two of Sin’s attacks.  I suspect he relived them both last night.”

“He’s been through much, for one so young.”  
  
“And survived it, Yevon be praised.”  She nodded.  “But he cried out his parents’ names in the night – his parents’ names, and Isaaru’s.”  Varra’s eyes darkened.  “If he means to become a summoner…”

“It is for his brothers’ sake I’m trying to convince him to delay,” Zuke said.  “For that very reason.  They’ve lost enough already.”

. . .

There was an anxiety rising in Maroda now that they were finally alone; he’d been thinking about the right things to say since that moment in the temple last night, the moment when Isaaru called them _brothers_.  But now it was hard to say it, to actually _say_ it, but if he didn’t ask, the question would fester in his mind until it drove him crazy.  
  
Isaaru sat on the bed beside him, watching him patiently.  There was a deep well of patience in Isaaru, Maroda was beginning to understand, and he suspected the older boy might be willing to wait forever to find out what it was he wanted to say.

It might’ve been easier if he’d just _demanded_ to know.

Maroda swallowed, staring at his feet dangling from the bed.  “Last night at the temple, when the priest asked about Pacce and me, you said…”  He cleared his throat.  “You said we were brothers.”

Isaaru nodded, still watching, watching.  “I did.”

So that part hadn’t been some wild dream brought on by the fever, then.  Maroda let himself feel the first small bursts of hope.  He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to look up, forcing himself to meet Isaaru’s eyes.

“Are we?”

Isaaru smiled, shrugging.  “Would you like to be?”

Maroda thought about it – about how Isaaru hadn’t let him fall back into the cellar, about how Isaaru wouldn’t leave him behind in the village, about how Isaaru kept taking breaks on the road for his sake.  About Isaaru holding him while he cried, about Isaaru putting himself between him and the fiend in the woods, about Isaaru calling them brothers there in the temple for all of Yevon’s priesthood to hear.

_Yes._

He nodded, a slow, shy smile spreading across his face.  Isaaru wrapped an arm over his shoulders.  “Then of course we are,” the older boy said.  “We’re brothers.”


	4. High Summoner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope people are enjoying this. o xo I'm still pretty anxious about the whole thing.

**Adelphotes**

By LeFox

**Chapter Four: High Summoner**

His mother was shaking him, urgently dragging him up out of sleep. In the blurry half-light, he couldn't even make out her face – not hers, nor his father's, already kneeling by the hatch which led down to the cellar. The cellar wasn't for storing food or supplies, no, it was for this exact moment. They'd already fled from Sin once. They'd already lost his little sister, the baby his parents hadn't wanted to name just in case… just in case…

Just in case Sin came again. Just in case Sin killed her. There had been other children, killed by Sin before Maroda was old enough to remember; his parents had decided that naming their children early would only make it hurt worse. Maroda never thought to ask if it worked – if not naming her had spared them some pain.

He tried to ask now, but no one heard.

"Into the cellar, hurry," his faceless father ordered, opening the hatch and pointing down the ladder, but when Maroda looked, there was no bottom at the end of the ladder – only darkness, stretching deep into the earth. "Go on, we'll be right behind you."

 _No, no, something bad's going to happen down there, I know it._ He tried to back away, but he was pressed against his mother, who urged him toward the hatch and that endless, yawning darkness. "No, you go first," he heard himself saying. " _You_ go first, not me. I'm not going down there."

"We'll be right behind you." His mother said, but the roof was already tearing away over her head, and he could see the sky. The sky, and looming above their house, filling the horizon, was Sin – watching, waiting.

"No, we have to _go_ –" He pulled her hand, but she was sinking into the earth, her featureless face dissolving into ashes and dust before his eyes. It seemed she was smiling, even as she faded. Horrified, he tried to pull his hand away, but she held on – and _he_ was sinking too, the dust collected around his knees already; the ground was sucking him in.

His father was there, too, holding his other hand. "You go first," his father was saying. "We'll be right behind you, right behind you…"

Maroda struggled, trying to pull away, trying to break free of the melting earth, but he was only sinking faster. "Right behind you," his parents said, but they were no longer sinking; Sin was drawing them up, pulling them into the sky. "We'll be right behind you," they said, as Sin's power ripped them apart, and Maroda felt the ground swallow him up and he was falling, falling –

" _Maroda._ " Another hand was gently shaking him now, drawing him back out of that terrible darkness. " _Maroda, you're dreaming. Maroda?_ " Dreaming. Dreaming… " _It's only a dream. Wake up._ "

He opened his eyes into near-black darkness, and for a moment he forgot where he was – he was back in the cellar with the black sky overhead, his parents' screams still ringing in his ears and his ankle hurting too much to move – but then Isaaru lit a candle, and he remembered: Bevelle, he was in Bevelle, safe in the heart of Yevon. Isaaru knelt beside the big bed they shared in the acolyte Zuke's guest room, watching him with calm, quiet concern. Maroda sat up, feeling his heartbeat slow as the nightmare receded, leaving in its wake a rising shame.

Nightmares, they were just _nightmares_ , they shouldn't bother him like this. His parents were dead, and no amount of dreaming about them was ever going to bring them back; no amount of reliving that night was going to change any part of it. His parents were dead, the village was gone, but _he_ was still alive.

"Maroda?"

He looked away, glaring at the other side of the room, unwilling to meet Isaaru's eyes; _Isaaru_ wasn't having nightmares about things no one could change. "I'm _fine_." He'd woken Isaaru up with his nightmares, he supposed – the healer said he'd yelled in his sleep last night, too, but he'd thought that might just have been the fever. Then again, he'd thought the nightmares themselves were just from the fever. _Fever dreams,_ Varra called them, just the brain trying to make sense of the illness the body was trying to fight off. She said they were normal, and they'd pass. Maroda thought she meant they'd pass once the fever was gone, but he didn't _feel_ sick, just… just…

Afraid. Ashamed.

"As long as you're alright," Isaaru said, quietly rising and extinguishing the candle. The room was brighter than Maroda had realized; already a pale grey light was shining in through the window. _Morning already,_ he thought, but he didn't feel rested. Isaaru made his way back to the other side of the bed and climbed back in, settling himself back under the blankets.

Maroda pulled his knees to his chest, staring into the fading darkness straight ahead. "Sorry if I woke you up."

"Pacce was crying." Isaaru's voice was muffled by his pillow. "I didn't want him to wake you or Zuke."

He couldn't tell if Isaaru was lying or not, so he decided to accept the answer at face value. "Maybe Pacce was having nightmares, too."

"Everyone has nightmares when Sin attacks." Isaaru rolled over and sat up, watching him in the half-light. "Grown men, children, priests, even Crusaders."

"You?"

The question hung in the air for a long time – long enough for the grey light to turn into red-gold, long enough that Maroda began to wonder if Isaaru had decided to ignore it… but there was a strange, pensive expression on the older boy's face, as if his thoughts had crept far away and were slow in coming back.

Finally, in a voice so quiet Maroda had to lean closer to hear, Isaaru replied: "Summoners aren't allowed to have nightmares."

. . .

 _Summoners aren't allowed to have nightmares_. Now, hours later, in the cheerful morning light, Isaaru wondered why he'd been too ashamed to tell the truth – it was true, summoners weren't supposed to admit to fears and uncertainties, nightmares included, but he certainly wasn't a summoner _yet_. He sighed, walking alone in Bevelle's quiet streets; he now knew Zuke lived in Bevelle's north residential district, known for its tranquility, and this particular street – it ran along the waterway, and the air was filled with the sound of gently-running water – was said to be _especially_ calming. Good for easing the mind. Good for soothing fears and stifling anxieties.

Perhaps that was true for others, but Isaaru didn't find himself calmed.

Would it have been kinder to admit to his own nightmares? Maroda had seemed ashamed of his own horrific dreams, however natural they were, and to know he wasn't alone… might that have eased some of the shame? They were meant to be brothers; surely that required a level of candid honesty. Still, the idea of placing his own unease at the feet of a child suffering from his own fears galled him. And even if he wasn't a summoner _yet_ , he would be someday… someday soon, whatever Zuke may wish; so long as Sin remained a threat, he couldn't delay, not even for the sake of his brothers. It was for their sake as much as anyone else's that he _must_ become a summoner, and quickly.

Become a summoner. Defeat Sin. End the nightmares, at least for a time. Isaaru looked up at the sky, drawing in a deep breath. The water in the canals sounded peacefully pleasant now, but if he closed his eyes, he could still hear the waves…

 _Yes, Maroda._ Would saying it have helped at all? _Even me. In my dreams, I'm still drowning_

A sound like thunder brought him back to the present, but the sky above was still blue and cloudless. Confused, he looked around. The other people on the street looked similarly nonplussed; a few were chattering anxiously among themselves when another low rumble filled the air… and this time, the ground shuddered. _Sin_? Isaaru wondered, stumbling. But Sin almost never attacked Bevelle itself! And how could it have gotten so close without anyone noticing?

He turned, running back toward Zuke's house. If it _was_ Sin, he wasn't about to leave Maroda and Pacce to face it alone, not again. He might not be a summoner yet, but even if he couldn't protect all of Spira – even if he couldn't destroy Sin – he still had a duty to protect _them_ , at least.

"Isaaru!" Not even halfway to the house, though, Zuke hurried to meet him, Pacce and Maroda in tow. There was a wild excitement in the acolyte's normally-calm eyes; as he passed Pacce into Isaaru's arms, Zuke was grinning. _He's gone mad,_ Isaaru thought; judging by the boy's expression, Maroda suspected the same thing. Zuke began walking swiftly away. "We have to hurry!"

"Hurry _where_?" Another rumble shook the ground. _He'll get us killed._ Still, Isaaru hurried after the acolyte, Maroda on his heels.

Zuke laughed. "The palace of St. Bevelle, of course! Don't you want the best view?"

 _View…_? Isaaru glanced questioningly at Maroda, but the boy shrugged. "He just started laughing when the first tremor came," Maroda said, staring at Zuke with wide eyes. "He said we had to go. That something was finally happening."

"Zuke!" _If you've lost your mind, leave us out of it!_ "Speak plainly, what's going on?"

"Can't you tell?" The earth shuddered again, accompanied by a low roaring sound, loud enough it seemed to split the sky. "That's the sound of the Calm fast approaching."

Isaaru nearly froze in his tracks; it was all he could do to keep moving. _The Calm. The Calm!_ Was it possible? It was almost too painful to hope. A feverish excitement came over him, and he grabbed Maroda's hand and sprinted after Zuke. The Calm! The end of the nightmares, at least for a little while.

Bevelle's palace stretched up into the heavens; it was the tallest man-made structure still standing after Sin had razed the machina cities one thousand years ago. A crowd clustered at the entrance, but few were allowed in; the warrior monks were struggling to control the excited citizens – word had gotten out that a fierce battle was raging in the Calm Lands, and the only place affording any view of the fight was the palace's highest tower. As a temple acolyte, Zuke was allowed in.

As his wards, so were Isaaru and Maroda.

"Being in the priesthood _does_ have its benefits," Zuke said as they stood in the elevator, rising slowly – oh, so _slowly_ – to the top of the palace. "We'd have been waiting for hours to hear how the battle ends."

Isaaru was too excited to worry about the presence of machina in the building that also served as Bevelle's temple; the elevator would get them to the top far more quickly than stairs would, at any rate. "Zuke, who is it? Who called the Final Aeon?"

"Who do you suppose?" Zuke smiled, his eyes bright. "The fallen summoner himself, Lord Braska."

So the fayth in Zanarkand _had_ judged him worthy of the Final Aeon – transgressions and all. Isaaru laughed out loud. "High Summoner Braska! Will they build statues for him, I wonder?"

"Of course they will." Maroda spoke up, squeezing his hand. "He's bringing the Calm. Everyone who brings the Calm gets a statue." But how could a child understand the depth of Lord Braska's heresy? To marry an Al Bhed woman, someone whose entire way of life stood in opposition to the teachings of Yevon… worse, though, Braska had sired a _child_ with the woman. It was said the child still lived here in Bevelle, though Isaaru wondered what kind of life a half-Al Bhed child could hope to live in a holy city. But if the fayth could overlook Braska's sins, surely Yevon could as well.

The man was willing to give his life for Spira. Surely that warranted a temple statue.

The roof of the tower was crowded, though most of the gathered audience appeared to be made up of priests and acolytes. There were few children; mostly children being raised to serve Yevon, but a small brunette girl had a place of honor at the very top – the highest point – where she and the Maesters stood in an island of privacy. No such luck for Zuke and his small entourage. They pushed through the sea of heavy robes, pushing their way to the front. It still wasn't much of a view – the Calm Lands were a distance away, obscured by the shifting air above the Macalania Woods. People shouted about being unable to see Sin or the Final Aeon; from here, there was only the occasional flash of magic, or the sound of roaring: Sin or the aeon itself, no one could say.

"I can't see _anything_ ," Maroda complained, squinting into the distance. "How are we supposed to know when Sin's gone?"

"We'll know." Isaaru stood beside him, his heart hammering. _Lord Braska can defeat Sin. He will._

Another roar, another loud rumble, and the world went suddenly silent. Isaaru realized he was holding his breath – and that he wasn't the only one doing so. The entire rooftop had gone silent, all eyes fixed on the Calm Lands, waiting, waiting…

From the distant Calm Lands, a light arose: a sphere of shimmering, shifting colors. It hovered in the air for only a moment, before bursting into an immense cloud of tiny, glowing lights. _Pyreflies._ Isaaru exhaled slowly, watching the pyreflies swirl and scatter. Some would find the Farplane, many would become fiends, but in the end, what it meant… what it _meant_ …

At the peak of the rooftop, ancient Maester Mika slowly raised his hands into the air, calling for silence – not that it was necessary. "Sin," the Maester declared, "has been vanquished by High Summoner Braska. The Calm has come to Spira once more."

The silence was immediately shattered. Cheers filled the air, loud enough they seemed to shake the entire city. Far below, the city itself heard the cheering and began its own celebration; from this high, Isaaru could see people filling the streets, laughing and throwing their arms around one another, scattering flowers and singing the Hymn of the Fayth in elation. He was cheering, himself, and smiling so hard his face hurt; Maroda was laughing, grinning – Isaaru didn't think he'd seen the boy so genuinely _happy_ in the brief time they'd known each other. Only Pacce was crying; all the noise had upset him. _Oh, Pacce, don't you realize this means you might grow up in peace?_ Isaaru was laughing too hard to soothe the baby.

So much joy. Isaaru looked around, breathing it all in: the happiness, the relief.

"This is what it's for," he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Maroda heard, though. "What?"

"Being a summoner." Isaaru smiled, gesturing to the celebration surrounding them. "This moment. This is what it's about. This is the joy a summoner can bring to Spira."

It made Maroda grin again. "Are you still gonna be a summoner? Since Lord Braska defeated Sin?"

"Of course!" He laughed. "If Sin comes back, Bevelle can have another celebration, just like this."

The priests had lifted the little brown-haired girl onto their shoulders, passing her along and cheering: _Braska! Braska! Braska!_ She was giggling, cheering right along with them. Isaaru leaned closer to Zuke, pointing at the girl. "Who is that?"

"Yuna," Zuke supplied, watching the girl as sadness crept into his gaze. "Lord- no, _High Summoner_ Braska's daughter. Poor thing."

The child. Isaaru blinked, looking back at the girl. She didn't _look_ like a half-Al Bhed abomination, though truth be told, he wasn't certain what he'd been expecting. The child looked like any other girl her age… and the priesthood certainly didn't seem to be scorning her for her dubious heritage. She seemed perfectly normal, though yes, now that she was closer, he could see she _did_ appear to have mismatched eyes, which –

"Why 'poor thing?'" Maroda frowned up at Zuke, glancing between the acolyte and Yuna. "She's the high summoner's daughter. Isn't that a good thing?"

"Certainly," Isaaru replied. "But it's going to be difficult for her – her mother died when she was very young, and now she's lost her father."

Maroda's brows knotted in confusion. "Lost him? But he just defeated Sin, didn't he? Why wouldn't he come back? Is there _more_ to the pilgrimage?"

The celebration went on around them, but Isaaru's heart had gone cold, and all he heard was the question, echoing: _Why wouldn't he come back?_ He stared at Maroda in rising anguish.

 _He doesn't know_.

_Yevon help me, he doesn't know._

The walk home was nearly surreal: all around them people were laughing, singing, greeting the new Calm, but they walked in somber silence. Though he didn't know the reason, Maroda was perceptive enough to recognize that _something_ was wrong; he stared at the ground as they walked, glancing up occasionally to frown at Isaaru or Zuke. _I thought he knew_ , Isaaru thought, feeling unfairly guilty; the boy was _twelve_ , how could he not know what fate awaited at the end of a summoner's pilgrimage? Hadn't his parents told him? Isaaru had known the Final Summoning was fatal since… since… since _forever_ , it seemed. It was a fact of life. A fact of life that, evidently, no one had ever seen fit to share with Maroda.

Zuke closed the door behind them, shutting out the happiness of the world outside, and leaving them alone in tense silence. The acolyte looked to Isaaru – this was _his_ to explain to Maroda: his new little brother, soon to be abandoned. Isaaru's mouth had gone dry. _Tell him. Just tell him._ Why did he feel so guilty? After all, being a summoner was a noble calling, and he'd been telling Maroda from the beginning that he intended to become a summoner – it wasn't _his_ fault Maroda didn't know about the cost of the Final Summoning. It wasn't. It _wasn't_.

"Calling the Final Aeon…" Maroda spoke first, staring at the floor. He was a clever child, that much Isaaru knew, and he'd already pieced it all together. "It kills the summoner, doesn't it? That's why the High Summoner won't be coming back to his daughter."

Isaaru nodded. "The life of the summoner gives the Final Aeon more power. Together they become strong enough to defeat Sin. It's been that way for a thousand years – since Lady Yunalesca defeated the first Sin and brought peace and Yevon's teachings to Spira."

"But that's not fair." The boy scowled, his hands balling into fists. "That's not _fair_. Isn't there another way?"

"In one thousand years, no one has found a different way." Zuke spoke gently, resting a calming hand on Maroda's shoulder, but the boy jerked away.

"But there _has_ to be!"

Zuke sighed, shaking his head. "The Crusaders have tried fighting Sin directly for nearly eight hundred years, Maroda, with no luck. Only the Final Aeon can defeat Sin."

"But… isn't there a way to call the Final Aeon without –"

"None we know of." Isaaru tucked Pacce into his cradle, deliberately avoiding the indignant fury in Maroda's eyes. He supposed all children had to know the truth of the Final Summoning sooner or later; it was only a shame it had taken this long for anyone to tell _this_ child. "The High Summoner's sacrifice is necessary for Sin's destruction."

There was a heartbeat of silence before the hardest blow finally connected.

" _You_ want to be a summoner."

 _There it is._ Isaaru took a deep breath, bracing himself before he turned back around. The fury in Maroda's dark eyes had been replaced by angry tears, shining, but not yet falling. "I do."

"You _can't_."

"I made my decision when I was younger than you are now." He shook his head. "I know the price."

Maroda looked desperately from him to Zuke, seeking reassurance that couldn't exist. "But… but you'll _die_. You _can't_ die. What about…" He chewed on his lip a moment, then: "What about Pacce? Pacce's only a baby. If you die, who's gonna take care of him?"

 _What will happen to you, you mean._ "The temples take care of children left behind by High Summoners." It was the least they could do, after all. "They grow up knowing their parent – or sibling, I suppose – brought peace to Spira, and of course they can always see the statue –"

"Your life is worth more than a _stupid statue!_ " Maroda yelled, startling Pacce into crying, and now his own tears were falling, as well. He rubbed angrily at his eyes, hiccupping and sobbing.

Isaaru went to him then, pulling the boy into his arms as he had in the woods only a few days ago. Maroda tried to jerk away, but he held on. "It won't happen for a long time yet," Isaaru murmured quietly, resting his cheek against the top of Maroda's head, taking deep, slow breaths. The boy finally returned the embrace, but it felt more as though Maroda were clinging to him for dear life. "Settle down. The Calm is here. It might last a long time – it might even last forever. I don't _need_ to be a summoner just yet." _I'll delay my training. I can, now. And I must._ "You're going to be stuck with me for a little while longer."

A short time later, the two of them sat together on the floor, staring up at the map of Spira pinned to Zuke's wall. The acolyte himself had slipped out of the room some time ago, likely to spare Maroda the embarrassment of _two_ people seeing him break down.

"Hey, Isaaru?" Maroda leaned against his brother's shoulder, exhausted from crying. "Can you tell me more about a summoner's pilgrimage?"

If the boy's complaints on the road to Bevelle were any indication, Maroda already knew a fair amount about the pilgrimage, but Isaaru was willing to discuss anything at all if it eased some of Maroda's concerns. "Of course." So he did: about the temples a summoner was expected to visit, about the fayth. About the Cloister of Trials that the summoner must brave in order to reach the fayth. About Spira's cities. About the history of the pilgrimages, beginning with High Summoner Gandof's journey to gain the strength of all of Spira's fayth to fight Sin. About the dangers a summoner could face on the road, and about the role of the guardians.

Maroda looked up at that, curious. "But summoners can call the aeons. Why would they need guardians? Aren't they strong enough to fight fiends on their own?"

"Perhaps because it's a hard journey to undertake alone." Isaaru smiled. "A difficult journey, and a long one. I can't imagine wanting to be alone for so long. And of course there may be some challenges that lie beyond what a summoner is capable of handling by themselves."

The slightest ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of Maroda's lips. "Like the stairs to Kilika Temple?"

" _Precisely_." Isaaru grinned, ruffling the boy's hair. They laughed, and for the moment, the cost of the Final Summoning seemed to be forgotten.

. . .

The next day, Maroda set out early, walking through Bevelle's empty streets. Crushed flower petals and stained banners were everywhere; the celebration had lasted well into the night, heedless of the darkness. He left the residential district and headed south, toward the temple – he didn't need to reach the temple itself, necessarily, but he did need to reach a more heavily-guarded area than this one.

He hadn't slept at all the night before, and not from nightmares.

The Final Summoning killed the summoner. But _Isaaru_ wanted to be a summoner. In one thousand years, no one had found a way to call the Final Aeon _without_ the summoner dying. Isaaru knew that, and _still_ wanted to be a summoner. To save Spira. To bring joy to Spira. To defeat Sin, to bring the Calm…

Was it worth it?

That was the question that had kept him up all night, staring at the ceiling and wondering. If one life could pay for a short time of peace for Spira – if one life could get rid of Sin, maybe forever… wasn't it worth it? Wasn't it worth the price, like Isaaru said it was? The Calm in exchange for Isaaru. And that was what Isaaru wanted. To bring the Calm, to save Spira… and to die in the process.

They were supposed to be brothers. How could he let Isaaru go off and die? And if it was what Isaaru wanted, how could he _not_ let Isaaru go off and die?

It was all tangled up in knots, and Maroda kept going back over it in his mind: what was best for Spira, whether it was worth it. Around and around and around, until finally, a solution presented itself. Not a perfect solution, no, but it was the only thing he could think of.

"Ah, it's the boy from the woods, isn't it?" A warrior monk stepped into his path, interrupting his thoughts. It took a moment, but Maroda recognized him as one of the two monks who'd helped them reach Bevelle. "A bit early to be out walking by yourself, eh, lad? Glad to see the ankle's all mended."

This was _exactly_ what he'd been looking for. "My ankle's better." Might as well get right to the point. "Can you teach me to fight?"

The monk stared a moment, then laughed. "Why? Are you of a mind to join the warrior monks?"

"No." Maroda shook his head, pointedly serious. "I'm gonna be a guardian."


End file.
